Immortal Evil Trilogy Part 2: Dance With The Devil
by Blackcurrant Bonbons
Summary: Sequel to Back From The Dead. After John is captured by Moriarty, Sherlock is blinded by fury and after vengeance on a suicidal rescue mission. But will betrayal come from where he least expects? Who can he turn to, and who will he trust?
1. King of Your Pain

**Hello there reader! Thank you for clicking on this story, I promise you will not be disappointed. As you have probably already noticed, this is the sequel to 'Immortal Evil Trilogy Part 1: Back From The Dead.' It is imperative that you read that first, or you will not understand a thing! I have decided to make this into a trilogy, hope you like it! **

**Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock in any shape or form (although Benedict Cumberbatch would be nice!) and I make no profits from writing this, purely for fun!**

**Warnings: None.**

**REVIEW! Please?**

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><p><strong><span>Immortal Evil Trilogy Part 2: <span>**

**Dance With Devil**

**by **

**Blackcurrant Bonbons**

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><p>Sherlock awoke suddenly, cold, clammy sweat dripping of his forehead. He gripped the hospitals sheets, panting. Something was inherently wrong. The sinking feeling in Sherlock's gut confirmed his worse fears as he turned over to face John's bed.<p>

It was vacant.

In an instant, Sherlock was on his feet and scrambling over to the bed, damn his wound, it seemed insignificant now.

John was gone. _His_ John was gone.

Several possibilities raced through his mind, and as much as Sherlock tried to consider each one as equally as possible, 'Moriarty' flashed in neon lights in his mind, and he suppressed the overwhelming urge to wretch. He did not even bother to consider any other of the possibilities.

He _knew _Moriarty was to blame.

Hauling himself up from his knees, he bounded towards the door and barrelled out into the corridor. By some grace it was empty. Sherlock slinked through the corridors silently.

A painful mixture of guilt and worry churned in his stomach. How had he slept through that? Distracted, he stumbled over his own feet, but straightened himself in a moment. In fact, all things considered, he had felt rather woozy since awakening.

They had drugged him. The thought offered a little relief to ease his guilt, but then he cursed himself for allowing his defences to be so easily let down. He was left as miserable as before.

He looked down in disdain at his meagre mandatory hospital gown. He would get some clothes.

Several minutes later, Sherlock slipped through the hospital doors, miraculously passing the security guards. Of course he couldn't escape the CCTV, but by the time he was gone they could do nothing.

Patting the back pockets of his newly acquired trousers, Sherlock suppressed a grin as he came across the car keys. It had been pure luck that he had encountered the cleaner on his departure, but he had felt no remorse when he knocked the man out, dragged him into an unused cupboard and swapped clothes.

Pressing the unlock button on the key, Sherlock surveyed the virtually empty car park, looking for the expected flash. The wail of distant ambulance sirens filled the night. Sure enough, Sherlock spotted the car in question, a small Fiat. He couldn't complain, what had been expecting, a Ferrari? At the least, it was small and would go at a reasonable speed.

Sprinting under the cover of darkness, Sherlock jumped into the car and was gone like a flash of lightning. His wound ached, and Sherlock knew that if he was too reckless it would reopen.

But since when had Sherlock cared about his health?

Speeding onto the road, completely ignoring the speed limits, Sherlock spotted a black van with no number plate speeding ahead, and Sherlock could virtually feel the tug pulling him towards John.

What would he do now? He couldn't start a full out gunfire, he was only one man, after all. Instead he kept his pace steady, never losing sight of the car. If he could follow behind discretely, he might have a chance. He knew that there was little hope, but he was delusional with worry for John.

If only he had realised that that would be his downfall.

A ringing came from his coat pocket.

_What the hell was that? _Sherlock pulled out the mysterious phone, intent on hanging up. But something drove him to press the green button. _What the hell are you doing Sherlock? You don't even know who this phone belongs to! They could be tracking you! _Sherlock ignored the little voice in his head.

"Who is this?"

The sound of a familiar cackle hissed through the speakers, and a shudder flew up Sherlock's spine. _Moriarty. How had he got the number?_

"Hello Sherlock! Long time no see! Have you missed me?"

"Moriarty," Sherlock hissed.

"Now Sherlock, I want you to do everything that I say, or I will do something you'll regret."

"What, kill me? Is that the best you can do?"

"Oh no, no Sherlock. Of course, I'm going to kill you _eventually_. No, I will kill _Johnny_, as he likes to call himself.

Sherlock froze, and remained silent.

"There's a good boy. Now, I want you to follow all the directions I'm going to tell you, like a good boy."

Sherlock growled, but refrained from speaking, an image of John's bloody body serving as a remainder to remain quiet.

As Moriarty whispered directions into his ear, Sherlock panicked. He had no weapons to speak of, and he was about to walk into Moriarty' web unarmed. This was an absolute disaster.

Sherlock pulled the little car up beside what he presumed to be a warehouse. He looked around frantically for a weapon in the car. Suddenly, something caught his eye on the back seat floor of the car. A tool kit. Sherlock didn't asked why there was tool kit in the car, there was no time for questions. Ripping on the lid, a large spanner glinted into his sight. Not perfect, but it would do for what he wanted to accomplish.

As if on cue, a muscled hand dragged him out of the car, but he span around as best as possible and sent the spanner smashing down onto the man's skull. He crumpled and Sherlock wasted no time in ransacking his body for weapons. Sure enough he came across a small handgun in the back pocket. He dragged the dead weight body onto the front seat, locking the car behind him. At least that was one less to take care of.

Keeping close to the overshadowed, towering wall of the warehouse, Sherlock began his trip to the entrance.

He knew Moriarty was inside, and when he found him, he was going to kill him.

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><p><strong>You know what to do next. Click the review button. Tell me what you like, what you don't, what I could improve, anything that suits your fancy. Even an emoticon. :)<strong>


	2. King of Your Destruction

**Hello there reader! Thank you for clicking on this story, I hope you enjoy reading this chapter as much as I enjoyed writing it. Any ideas that you want in this story or in the next part of the trilogy, give me a shout through a review or PM, there really appreciated! Thanks to 'TheScienceODeduction' (anonymous reviewer) for such a wonderful review, it really made my day! Thanks to all who have review, favourited and alerted so far, the early update of this chapter is dedicated to you! Please leave a little review at the end, there so important to me. Enjoy!**

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><p>A sharp kick to the head dragged John from unconsciousness. He snapped awake, but fell back down again as he tried to sit up, a wave of nausea rising in his throat. He suppressed the overwhelming urge to wretch.<p>

His head bounced up and down helplessly. He was in a van. He felt like his brains were shaking out of place as his head knocked against the hard wooden floor. Struggling against his bounds helplessly, he received another sharp kick for his troubles.

_Moriarty. _John shuddered involuntarily. The man did not deserve the use of his first name. He felt an overwhelming wave of sadness and pity for Jim, tinged with hate.

_What had become of the best friend he knew so well?_

He wriggled over as best he could to survey the goons he shared the cramped space with. He could pick out two white faces against the consuming darkness.

Suddenly, one man crouched down, and John could feel his hot, stinking breath on his face.

"Oh, you're awake! So you're the one who calls himself John, are you? Jim spoke of you. I'm Sebastian Moran, but you can call me Sebastian." The man spoke mockingly, and began to stroke his face. John flinched, and on a spur of the moment, closed his teeth around the man's finger.

Big mistake.

A harsh blow hit him full on the side of the face, and John winced. The man hissed, and soon afterwards an itchy cloth was shoved in his mouth, causing John to choke. A sharp pinch in his back indicated he had been drugged again.

His suspicions were confirmed as he fell quickly back into the sticky blackness he had just escaped.

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><p>Sherlock entered cautiously into the building through a small side door. He surveyed the large room cautiously, hands on his gun.<p>

"The gun will not be necessary, Sherlock dear." Moriarty's soft yet subtly dangerous lilting Irish accent filled the room effortlessly, and Sherlock growled.

"Where's John?" Sherlock had no time for his pointless small talk; he got straight to the point.

"No why would I tell you, Sherlock dear?"

Sherlock remained silent, but pulled the safety catch of his gun, gripping it tightly. The click resounded against the towering walls, and Moriarty cackled.

_He won't be laughing anymore_.

Sherlock aimed the gun at Moriarty's chest, but his hands shook ever so slightly as he pulled the trigger, and the bullet went slightly off, hitting Moriarty in the leg.

The psychopath crumpled to the ground, but made no noise to indicate he was in pain.

Sherlock raised the gun to shoot again, but suddenly the lights blinked out. He froze, shoulders tensing, gun held out. Just as he began to move, the lights flicked back on, but Moriarty's was gone.

Sherlock ran over to the spot where Moriarty had stood. A small pool of blood had formed, but there was no trail to indicate his direction. Looking frantically around the warehouse, Sherlock sprinted towards the door, heading for the Fiat.

He burst through the door, shoulder taking the brunt of the impact. He winced as he felt several stitches spilt, and a small trail of blood oozed down, leaving a small mark on his too tight t-shirt.

He ignored this, and carried onto the car. But he froze when he saw the shattered window and the open door.

Suddenly, a meaty hand grabbed him from behind, gripping his neck tightly. Sherlock choked, and tried to kick out with his legs, which were swiftly taken out by a sharp kick. Sherlock struggled a few seconds in his grip, legs dangling helplessly. He felt his chest tighten as he lost air, mouth gaping, but this only made it worse. He felt his brain slow down as he lost his last remaining oxygen.

But Sherlock refused to die now. He swung his head backwards sharply, and heard a satisfying crunch and yowl, and the goon loosened his grip automatically. That was all Sherlock needed. Falling to his feet, Sherlock spun around and raising his aching leg, he sent a sharp kick outwards, and the man stumbled. Pulling out his gun, Sherlock did not hesitate or shake as he shot the man in the leg, and then in the other.

He felt not a hint of remorse.

Jumping into the battered Fiat, Sherlock span off, foot slamming the accelerator to the floor. He saw another black van speeding up the road parallel to the warehouse, and Sherlock knew he had his target.

However, as he hit the road, a strange beeping noise began to emit from the back of the car. Sherlock turned slightly, trying to keep his eyes on the road.

It was the tool kit.

Reaching over, Sherlock placed it on the seat opposite.

Opening it apprehensively, Sherlock froze.

It was a bomb.

Sherlock panicked. From what he could tell, he had seconds left. Not even bothering to open the window, Sherlock threw it with all his might, glass shattering in its wake.

A bead of sweat trailed down his forehead as he pushed the car faster, sending a silent apology to any cars that may have been behind him.

Seconds later, Sherlock's world exploded in flames, and the last he felt was the shattered glass piercing his skin before his world turned black as his head smashed against the steering wheel.

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><p>Jim Moriarty grinned smugly as he reclined in the expensive leather of his private car, leg already attended too. His sadistic, cunning mind was at work.<p>

But do not be deceived by the calm, smug composure. Inside, he was fuming.

But a sudden grin came across his face, and he clapped his hands in childish glee.

He knew_ exactly_ how he was going to kill Sherlock.

Except Sherlock would not die at Jim's hand.

Jim smiled, chuckling to himself.

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><p><strong>Go on, you know what to do. Review! Press that little blue box (No, not the Tardis) and tell me what you liked, what you didn't, any criticism, whatever floats your boat. I really need your help, any ideas appreciated!<strong>


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